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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22924678">She Was Born With A Soul(mark)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerPurpleDragon/pseuds/QueerPurpleDragon'>QueerPurpleDragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bi-Gender, Bi-Gender Character(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton &amp; Natasha Romanov Friendship, Domestic Avengers, Drama &amp; Romance, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, First Meetings, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderfluid Character, I just really wanted to write it and didn't feel like waiting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Lesbian Natasha Romanov, Mutant Powers, Mutants, My imagination is kinda dark, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, No Smut, Protective Natasha Romanov, Queer Themes, Red Room (Marvel), Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, i'm not writing anyone doing the nasty, mostly - Freeform, not slow at all</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:20:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,941</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22924678</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerPurpleDragon/pseuds/QueerPurpleDragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Like every other person on Earth, Natasha Ramonoff was born with a soulmark. It’s a calling card to her humanity; one that kept her above the ocean of doubts. It was a feather, curved into the shape of a crescent moon. Like all marks, it’s black until she meets her soulmate, a simple silhouette. </p><p>Like every other member of the Red Room, Natalia Ramonova hid her mark. Natalia got an undercover tattoo in a shady alley in the depths of Russia at eight to hide it in an early act of defiance. (She killed anyone who thought that it wasn’t her mark.)</p><p>Like every other soulmate, she got one other way of connection to tether them together. Some pairs had their right eye the shade of their soulmate’s. Some had skin that would show any mark on one on the other in turn. Some had psychic links-limited ones that let you hear what music your soulmate is playing or glimpses into their feelings. And some, like Nat, had the first words her soulmate would say to her engraved on her wrist. </p><p>(She could not hide that.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), OCs/Ocs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Slight Issue-There's Been A Kidnapping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey guys! Welcome to my second fic! This will be much lighter than the other one, so you don't have to prepare your emotions so much this time! (You're welcome.) The darkest chapter is the beginning one, so-</p><p>TWs</p><p>Mentions of torture<br/>Graphic descriptions of injuries<br/>Kidnapping<br/>(Let me know if I missed something)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Like every other person on Earth, Natasha Ramonoff was born with a soulmark. It’s a calling card to her humanity; one that kept her above the ocean of doubts. It was a feather, curved into the shape of a crescent moon. Like all marks, it’s black until she meets her soulmate, a simple silhouette. </p><p>Like every other member of the Red Room, Natalia Ramonova hid her mark. Natalia got an undercover tattoo in a shady alley in the depths of Russia at eight to hide it in an early act of defiance. (She killed anyone who thought that it wasn’t her mark.)</p><p>Like every other soulmate, she got one other way of connection to tether them together. Some pairs had their right eye the shade of their soulmate’s. Some had skin that would show any mark on one on the other in turn. Some had psychic links-limited ones that let you hear what music your soulmate is playing or glimpses into their feelings. And some, like Nat, had the first words her soulmate would say to her engraved on her wrist. </p><p>(She could not hide that.)</p><p>----</p><p>I sit on the couch, reading a book on soulmates after finishing my other one on the science of mutants. (Why would anyone be paired to me-) (They don’t deserve me-) (Why are the words so-) Tony is brewing a cup of coffee, which is allowed only because it’s only his second cup. Bruce is typing out some paper, frowning at his keyboard. Clint is texting Laura, smiling at his phone, while eating cereal at the counter. Thor sleeps on the couch, knocked out from last night’s mead chugging. </p><p>And then none of us are doing any of that, because the alarm for the Avengers goes off. And, worse, Director Fury’s voice comes over the intercoms in our ears. </p><p>“We have a hostage situation of an enhanced individual of critical importance,” he says briskly. “Congresswoman and SHIELD Agent Spiral has been abducted. We need immediate retrieval.” </p><p>We’re suited up within five minutes. (I ignore the flutter in my gut-the name-) </p><p>“Can we get any more info?” Tony asks through the coms. “Location, for example?”</p><p>“HYDRA, we believe, is holding Agent and Congresswoman Spiral in their largest base, which we tracked to just outside of Chicago.”</p><p>“Chicago?” Tony asks incredulously, “Seriously?” </p><p>“Do you have a more concise location?” I ask, herding the idiots (the rest of the Avengers) into the plane. While the team is great-incredible, really- they have less common sense than genius sense. Sometimes I have to make up for it. </p><p>“The drop off point is one mile off of the estimated location. The location should have been sent to the quintjet.”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” I say, making sure Clint closes the door behind us. “Is there an estimate on the number of men, guards, weapons?”</p><p>“Hostiles estimatedly range from the hundreds to the thousands,” Fury answers grimly. “They seem to have found some sort of serum that has enhanced some individuals similar to the one used on the good Captain, but with slightly disastrous effects.”</p><p>On the screen on one wall, several photographs pull up. Steve whistles lowly. A series of men, all with some sort of strange...thing going on. One has misshapen, massive wings and muscles that are inhumanly large. Another has skin that is almost purple and a grin that sports dagger sharp teeth. Scales. Eyes like a reptile’s. Tails edged in spikes, lined in scales. </p><p>“Yeah, when are they going to learn recreating the serum is going to go badly for them?” Clint asks, tone horrified. <br/>“It’s like they used DNA from some sort of reptile…But the wings...” Bruce mutters. “Genetic fusion…? Mutations…?”<br/>“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “They’re stronger, we’ll have to look out for them. Maybe try to capture one. Anything else we have to look out for, Director?”<br/>“Yeah, Nick,” Tony says mockingly. I swat him lightly to cut off whatever he plans to say next. Clint sits in the pilot seat and gets us in the air within seconds. </p><p>“Here is the registered floorplans,” Fury says. A map appears on the screen. I try my best to memorize it. “Try to use non-lethal force, but you are authorized to use strong measures.”</p><p>“Thank you, Director,” Steve says. “Anything else?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Fury says apologetically. “They’ve hacked our servers, or they have a spy that wiped the systems. We’ve shut it down, but we have limited functionality now.”</p><p>“We’re on it,” I say. </p><p>“Indeed!” Thor booms. “This will be a worthy battle for the brave Avengers!”</p><p>I agree, but I also make a point to get the med kits out. Hundreds v. six is not some excellent odds, but I have faith. We’ll win, but it will be with a few new scrapes. </p><p>Tony is typing away on his StarkPad, seemingly absorbed. I know this isn’t true -he can do so many things at once, it’s scary- but let him be. </p><p>“We land in two!” Clint calls.</p><p>Honestly, with the speed we’re currently at, I don’t know how Fury convinced other agencies to ignore the helicarriers, what with their record-breaking speeds and massive size. </p><p>Steve and I go through a plan; Clint will pick off guards from the trees to try to lower their numbers without them noticing. I will do the same from the ground. After we’ve taken out as many as we can without raising suspicion, I’ll give the signal and the big guns will be pulled out. Full charge-Tony, Steve, and Thor will try to take out the main hordes that will come to defend the base while Clint and I sneak in and try to retrieve the hostage. We don’t know where she’ll be held, so we’ll enter from opposite ends and tell each other which parts of the building are clear as we move through. (I need to reevaluate when we get back- I’ve never heard of her, which says a lot about my slipping attention, as she’s in Congress.) (I have been slightly busy with SHIELD and the Avengers, though…)</p><p>And then we land.</p><p>I let Steve bring Bruce to the sidelines (just in case) while I handle talking down Tony to the point where he won’t fly in and blow our cover with an explosion. Thor can handle himself, and merrily goes along with Steve and Bruce. </p><p>Once I talk down Tony (and am called ‘no fun’), we head in. Steve keeps Thor, Bruce, and Tony as silent as possible behind the tree line while Clint and I climb trees. </p><p>With a hand signal from Clint, we begin.</p><p>A man on a smoke break falls without a sound into the bushes, with a bullet in the eye. A woman walking alone takes a nasty tumble down a hill after an arrow through the heart. And so forth, with taking out the guard pairs simultaneously. All in all, we manage to take out thirteen people with a few trees and a little ammunition, having raised no alarm. </p><p>I signal Steve and Clint, counting down from ten. Take out the cameras, I say to Clint. Go, I say to Steve. Both nod, and-</p><p>Red lights blink out as arrows and bullets shatter cameras. Shouting as Captain America and Thor charge in their full glory. I hope they had the forethought to not leave Bruce in the spot they charged from, or we might find him cold later. </p><p>Predictably, an army pours from the doors towards Steve and Thor, leaving the few guards we couldn’t take out and presumably more within the building. </p><p>The hallways, as a nice surprise, are well lit and rather clean. I walk into the face of five guards down a hallway, which all begin yelling at the sight of me. Fortunately, they lose the ability to speak, or even stand, rather quickly with a few sedative tranqs. I push one of them aside -you’ll pardon me if I push the Nazi a little harshly- in order to access the first room. While I doubt they’ll store hostages this close to an exit, I don’t know their IQs, so anything is possible. </p><p>The room is a storage room with cinderblock walls and a rather terrible method of organisation. Nothing interesting, except maybe why they have chocolate pineapple chunks. The next room is a small, dimly lit bathroom with a leaky ceiling. Next an office which must have some impressive sound proofing because the man at his desk is sound asleep, head on his desk and drool dribbling down one cheek. I bind him to his chair and put him safely out of the way before going through his desk. </p><p>The laptop is given a quick once-over. All I have to do is plug in one of Tony’s devices to the USB port and the entire thing is downloaded for future reference while I go through the desk itself. I neatly stack interesting and probably unimportant in different piles on the top while searching for hidden compartments. Once I find two, I just stab them open with a knife and find the keycard and stack of cash. Taking the first and saluting the now very conscious man bound to his wheeled chair mockingly with it, I walk out. </p><p>The next few rooms are similar. An empty office that I methodically ransack. A kitchen empty except for a cat, who I leave to the chicken abandoned on the counter. An armory I use to stock up on bullets and knives, before alerting Clint to it’s location and that the far south hall is clear. </p><p>His response is absent, a quick thing. He tells me that he’s cleared the northmost building is clear and that he’s moving to another of the fringe buildings in the compound. </p><p>The next hallway is much the same; an office, a bathroom, an empty cell with nefarious blood stains. I move to the central area.</p><p>The first is a lot more shady. A lab with a partially burned out fire. Some idiot tried to destroy the evidence and only managed to burn a few thousand dollars in equipment before the flames died out. I collect the papers briskly and download any data. </p><p>The next room, I don’t get past the door. During my routine ear to the door, I hear voices. Threatening, male.</p><p>“Oh, come now, sweetheart,” the voice mocks. “This could end so easily. All you have to do is talk. A few words, and the pain stops.”</p><p>The returning voice is tired and wrecked. “I’d rather die.”</p><p>“It’s a distinct possibility-” the man starts, but then is cut off when I open the door, gun loaded and pointed at his face.</p><p>The room is made of cinderblock and concrete, is around the temperature of an icy tundra, and has liberal bloodstains. I see, out of the corner of my eye, a woman with black hair that is stiff with dried blood. Early thirties, I catalog absently.</p><p>The man, who takes most of my attention, is the usual HYDRA commander. Military-type uniform, buzz cut, eyes that have not a scrap of a soul inside. There is also a man with several nasty instruments in-hand. I shoot him in the leg without hesitation, and he crumples.</p><p>“Hawkeye, I’ve located the hostage,” I say, looking at the ringleader. “Severely injured.”<br/>“Got it,” he said. “I’ll clear the area and help move her.”</p><p>I give a deadly smile to the man, who has now drawn his own gun. “It’s been a pleasure,” I tell him. He shoots, but I smoothly dodge and return fire in the form of a nice tranq. </p><p>As he falls unconscious, a last bullet flies toward me. The aim is deplorable-it bounces off a wall and into his foot. I then turn to the table, and-</p><p>Well.</p><p>The woman does have black hair, and she is clearly the victim here, as she is strapped to the table by her wrists, forehead, chest, legs, and ankles. Other interesting facts include how she has scales, limp wings that are chained to the floor securely, scales that are patchily over areas of her skin, and a tail that writhes weakly. </p><p>“Are you a mutant, or did they do this to you?” I ask after a beat. The woman’s eyes shift to me, although they are glazed and barely open. She makes a humming noise around her gag, which I just noticed. I carefully and as respectfully as possible take the rag out of her mouth. </p><p>“Mu’nt,” she mutters. I’m glad she’s lucid enough to answer the question, at least. But she’s clearly suffered a lot of blood loss, so who knows how long that will last. “T’ey r’ ‘x’peri’ment’n’ wit’ t’ x g’n’.”</p><p>“Alright,” I say, taking out my keycard, my hand stuttering only slightly because while my words have always been ominous, I truly was not able to prepare myself for this. I inspect and find a computer which has a scanning device attached. After I swipe the card, I am met with several clanking sounds as the binds on the Agent releases. I turn around in time to watch her wings flop bonelessly, her wrists and ankles flexing. She shakily turns her head, clearly slowly getting her body used to moving again. </p><p>What catches my attention is the name on her wrist; my heart stops. Natasha Alianovna Romanoff. Underneath it is more words, my words, the first words I’ll say to her, but I don’t pause to register them. </p><p>“Clint,” I say. Clint!”</p><p>“What’s wrong?” he demands. “Nat?”<br/>“Widow, report!” Steve calls over the general noises of battle. </p><p>“It’s her,” I say, and Clint is silent. </p><p>A pause, a beat.</p><p>“Your soulmate?!” he demands, which snaps me out of a trance. As the coms descend into chaos, I rush forward, helping the woman -my родственная душа-sit up gently. She leans heavily into my help, but is clearly determined to do it with as little help as possible.</p><p>I take off one glove, rolling up my sleeve slightly, once she is upright. She focuses on the movement with absent eyes until the words appear. Star Nova Spiral. Underneath that is her words, but my sleeve isn’t far enough up for that. She blinks a few times, her brain struggling, probably, with little blood to work with, before her head jerks up to look at me. </p><p>She has purple eyes, like nothing I’ve ever seen, and they are beautiful. </p><p>“Can I pick you up?” I say gently. “You’re hurt, and I want to get you out of here quickly.”</p><p>Star nods, her eyes skipping between my wrist, to my hair, to my eyes, to anywhere else she can, I assume. I pick her up gingerly, making note of when she winces and moving accordingly. </p><p>My mark burns, and I know my body is busy filling in the color, but I ignore it because oh God she’s in my arms. Star leans her head back, limp in my arms. She barely looks conscious. </p><p>“Y’ scar’d m’,” she mutters. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” I say, not sure what I’m apologising for. She didn’t look overly concerned with me in particular when I entered the room, more so the man. </p><p>“M’ m’rk b’rn’d n’ I t’oght y’ r’ dead,” she slurs. “N’talia R’manova. Nat’sha Raman’ff.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” I say grimly, “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>I had always had Star Nova Spiral scrawled across my wrist in loose, somewhat cursive-like handwriting, after it had shifted from chicken scratch to a toddler’s scrawl to painstaking letters, and, finally, to her final handwriting. It was a promise. That I would leave the Red Room, that I would live, that I would escape, that I wasn’t a monster, because surely, no one would be paired with a monster, right? Star Nova Spiral has been my light in the void since before I could read. </p><p>“‘S ‘kay.”</p><p>Then she passes out. I check her pulse while trying to move her as little as possible. It’s unsteady, going between to fast and too slow, as well as uneven. Thump, pause, thumpthump. </p><p>I turn my mic back on. “Severely injured and unconscious hostage has been recovered,” I say over the din in my ear. I know it’s not protocol to take out my com, but they are tempting me with their noise. “Signal for a medical team.”</p><p>Bruce, the only one with a pretense of calm responds with, “Already done. You out of the building?”</p><p>“Cleared,” I announce over Clint yelling for details as I walk through the door. “Hawkeye, you’re going to have to take the rest of the compound.”</p><p>Clint very clearly would rather meet my soulmate, but I politely tell him the meeting would go better if she was conscious. </p><p>“Nat, as your brother, I hate you,” he mutters. </p><p>“I’m sure,” I say dryly, dodging behind cover to remain unspotted. I am slowly making my way to the safety of the treeline. I curse as Star seems to flicker between sleep and waking, groaning and pain and drifting off again. It’s both good and bad; good, because she’s not falling into a coma, and bad, because she’s clearly in pain. </p><p>My mark prickles. I wonder what color it will be. I wonder what Star’s is. </p><p>I sprint after Steve takes out a pack, gaining even more attention. Only one man sees me, and he’s dead within the minute. <br/>“Bruce, where are you?” I ask into the coms. “Meet at the quintjet?”<br/>“Yeah, sure, it looks like they’ve got it,” Bruce responds. “See you in a second, go to the spot we entered the forest.”</p><p>It takes some maneuvering to get myself and an unconscious body through the dense trees, but whatever. Bruce can deal with the wait, and I don’t feel like adding a few scratches to Star’s blood loss. </p><p>Eventually, I get to a clear area, and I sprint to the quintet in one clear shot. Bruce stands just inside the mouth of the entrance, his eyes already looking Star over as he rushes me inside. </p><p>The med kit on board is extensive, but none of us are medical professionals. Bruce is the closest we’ve got, and all he’s got is common sense and knowledge that’s a little more extensive than your average guy. </p><p>So, Bruce just wraps Star up and prays he doesn’t accidentally agitate anything trying to help, with only the guidance of JARVIS. Without an X-ray, we don’t know if the bandages around her ribs are worsening broken bones or not. </p><p>He sees the mark on her wrist and hesitates for only a second. He then politely wraps bandages around the words, despite no major injury being there. I give him a weak smile and sit next to Star. </p><p>She has blood dried over almost her entire body, which I begin to chip away at with a towel I dip in warm water periodically. Bruce takes a sample of blood to see if she was injected with anything worrying and starts to test the sample. </p><p>“She’s a mutant,” I say as a warning. Bruce just nods grimly. </p><p>There’s a pause.</p><p>“How do you feel about that?” he asks quietly. I dab away blood on her forehead while responding.<br/>“I think if I had any negative thoughts about her being enhanced, I would render myself a complete hypocrite,” I respond. Bruce throws me a questioning look.</p><p>“Bruce, how old would you say I am?” I ask, wringing out the cloth and refilling the bowl with more warm water, purposefully not looking at him. </p><p>Bruce is hesitant. “Uh, mid-twenties. I don’t know. Why? How is that…?”</p><p>“I’m thirty-six.”</p><p>A sharp intake of breath. </p><p>“Russian underground groups were experimenting with a sort of serum on children in the eighties,” I offer. “It worked, partially.”</p><p>“So...you don’t age?” I turn around. Bruce is staring at me, despite the fact that his machine has given him his answer on the blood test. </p><p>“I age slower than the average human,” I answer, sitting again. Bruce breathes out unsteadily, nods sharply, and then turns back to his computer.</p><p>“Be good to her.”</p><p>“I swear it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Returning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Avengers finish their battle and Star is brought home.</p><p>Tws<br/>references to violence/medical stuff/injuries<br/>description of mental illness</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>&lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve comes back with a broken arm, several already-healing bruises and cuts, and a slight concussion. Tony also has a concussion and a few bruises. Clint has a gash sending blood tumbling down his cheek and a stab wound in his shoulder. Thor waves me off when I go to check him over and chugs a strange liquid, which briefly makes him glow before he begins to look much healthier. He simply tells me the drink works only for Asgardians, and I don’t question it. Hopefully he has a lot of that stuff on him. </p><p>I return to Star when I am sure everyone is alright. She has yet to wake.</p><p>Clint further patches himself up and straps himself into the pilot’s seat. “Take off in one!” he calls. I strap myself to my chair and do the same for Star, praying she does not wake to the sensation of being held down after what just happened to her. Just in case, I give her a pillow and blanket, so maybe she won’t panic as much. </p><p>The engines start at the same time Star does. She jerks, and then her eyes fly open, and she’s yanking at the straps across her chest and legs. Then she halts, and looks up. At me. The moment of realisation dawns in her eyes. Her hands drop, with her sitting up and one of the straps undone. To her credit, she undid the thing within thirty seconds. I press a hand to her arm, and she focuses on me.</p><p>“You’re an Avenger,” she says. “I am on the Avenger’s plane.”<br/>
“Quintejet!” Clint yells teasingly from the pilot’s seat. I throw a syringe so it imbeds itself into the fabric of the pilot’s chair, and Clint shuts up.<br/>
“Yes,” I say gently. “I’m Natasha, but you can call me Nat, if you want.”<br/>
Tony whistles. “High praise,” he says with a smirk toward Star. I hold up a syringe in his direction without looking and his jaw clicks shut. I put the syringe down as Star’s eyes start to droop.<br/>
“Tired,” she mutters. “Hurts.” She slumps, and I gently press her down as we begin to gain altitude.<br/>
“That’s okay, aнгел,” I say. “You need to rest. I will ensure your safety while you do.”<br/>
Star nods, clearly almost incoherent again, before passing out. I set up an IV with morphine, hoping whatever X gene effects she has, it doesn’t include resistance to painkillers. I pause when I notice movement, despite the fact that Star is still out cold. The scales lining her skin are slowly disappearing, leaving behind new, pink skin. The slight claws at her fingertips shorten and dull, and her body seems to be filling out slightly. I think her body is reclaiming some of itself to turn into fat for emergency energy, which, fair enough. Her tail and wings remain the same, but that’s fine. I’ll just have to be careful carrying her.</p><p>My aнгел will be fine; I’ll make sure of it.</p><p>---</p><p>I wake up in stages.</p><p>It begins with internal awareness. Groggy, confused. I hang for a second, suspended in the realm between waking. Then, smacking me fully awake, is the sensations-warmth, something solid touching me, cloth, and, overwhelmingly, pain.</p><p>Spikes in my head, a heated throb everywhere from my chest to my stomach to my legs and arms. I gasp and my eyes fly open, giving me a relatively blurry view. Nat has her arms around me, I think, and the bobbing sensation is her walking. Running? It looks like we’re going fast. Why is she-</p><p>Oh, this is a SHIELD hallway. White walls, grey emblems, agents lining the place. Are we running to medical? I try my best to curl into Nat to stop the pain from every jarring footstep. It doesn’t really help, so I just relax and try to grit my teeth and bear it, staring at the wall. </p><p>And then, in front of the wall, a person appears. To be more exact, the wall became a hallway because Nat is running and we were passing it, and the person is my best friend. Who looks very panicked, and seems to not be helped by the sight of me. Which is probably fair at this point, my entire body hurts, so I can’t imagine it looks good. </p><p>Jack’s skin is so white you could shade match it to a piece of paper, but he seems to be even paler than normal. His hair, which he pretends he dyes that way but is actually natural, is a spot between silver and white, or it would be, if it wasn’t full of grease like it is now. It’s also clearly on end and floppy because he’s been running his hands through the top spiky bit and brushing against the shaved sides. His pale blue eyes are bloodshot, with bags roughly the size of his emotional baggage. In summary, he looks wrecked enough that even from my position, I wrangle up a bit of concern for him. </p><p>He stops dead from where he’d been running, and we pass the hallway he was down. Then that hallway erupts in yells too convoluted for me to understand, and there’s quick footsteps and a head of greasy white hair sprinting behind us. I try to say something in the English language (hey, slow down, if you must know), but it comes out as, “‘Ey, th‘low d...own.”</p><p>Apparently, this is comprehensible to my soulmate (!!!), because we go from a superhuman (???) sprint to a speedy jog. This lets Jack catch up after about five seconds, as he’s going full tilt. </p><p>“Star!” he yells. I make a waving motion by throwing my arm up and then immediately bring it back down because it made me feel unsteady in Nat’s arms. </p><p>“Who are you?” Nat asks rather sharply, but she’s given away by the way she keeps running and glancing down to me with a worried look in her eyes. I reassure her by taking her arm and squeezing, but this backfires because my body automatically squeezes way too tight when the pain hits me on another step. She doesn’t say a word. </p><p>“Her best friend, Agent Ramanoff,” Jack says, with all the authority of a middle-ranked agent, which is to say nothing close to that of the Black Widow but trying his best and stubborn enough to make sure he gets what he wants if he can. </p><p>He looks at me, anxiously looks around, and with a look in his eyes I can easily remember through the pain from every single one of the many pranks he has pulled (something to the tune of “screw it”), places a hand on my stomach. I gasp at the cold, but he just keeps pace and acts like an ice pack. It’s kind of funny that Jack’s using his so carefully-hidden mutant ability in the middle of the hallway, so I giggle, which makes both Jack and Nat look worried. </p><p>“What are you doing?” Nat asks, slightly softer in both volume and tone.</p><p>“Helping,” Jack grits, trying his best to keep up with the Black Widow’s speed while also focusing on keeping the temperature of his hand to a point where it’s more of an ice pack and less of a taste of the Arctic straight to my core. (What a gentleman.)</p><p>I notice that my skin is clear of scales. I must have turned back, at least partially. Huh. Wonder when that happened. Probably around when I passed out, I’ve never been good at holding forms in my sleep. </p><p>We reach medical just before Nat can question Jack. I’m rushed away, my wings and tail given second-too-long glances by doctors, questions and movement sending my head spinning. I suddenly feel nauseous as well as being in pain. </p><p>In my greatest moment, I throw up, managing not to hit a nurse by two inches.</p><p>“-Concussion?-”<br/>
“-clean-up crew.”<br/>
“IV, saltine drip-”<br/>
“-the lights! Can’t you see that she-”<br/>
“Agent Ramanoff, you’re not cleared to-”<br/>
“-please, sir, stand back.”</p><p>I’m hauled onto a relatively soft surface I register dimly must be a medical cot. Suddenly there's the prick and following itch of a needle in my arm, the lights are dimming, and I can hear both Nat and Jack practically yelling somewhere off in the room. I’m less nauseous now that I’m not moving and that the lights are low, but I still am in a lot of pain, enough that I can barely think around it, even with my training. </p><p>“She’s going into withdrawal, at least let me give her her meds!” Jack shouts.</p><p>Ah. That’s why my head feels like that. Huh. Withdrawal sucks. </p><p>In the corner of my vision, there is suddenly a shock of white hair. Jack’s face comes into view, and he’s gentle in the way he is whenever I have an attack. He gently lets me sit up, helping me along, his eyes watchful for any signs I may be showing. It’s probably going to be skewed a bit because I’m also experiencing withdrawal and blood loss, so who knows if I’m also having an attack. </p><p>Jack grabs some water, which I weakly glare at because just the thought of consuming anything makes my headache stronger and my gut revolt, but I weakly take a mouthful of water and a few pills and swallow. Jack is mumbling the whole time, but the meaning of the words makes it to my brain only around half the time. It doesn’t matter-I know the speech by heart.</p><p>“Hey, love, I know you might be hurting or nauseous right now, but I need you to swallow this, all right, I promise you will feel better, okay? And look, better, right? You can relax now, love. Does anything hurt? Do you want to shift positions? Is there anything I can get you, love?”</p><p>We’ve been doing this since I was eleven. By now I just relax and let the concern and love wash over me, and then mumble if I have any responses. </p><p>“Hurts,” I say, when just opening my mouth taunts the relative stability in my stomach. “Forehead. Hnng, uh, stay.”</p><p>And then, a new question. “Do you want her here, too, love?” Jack points to Nat, who has managed to push through a crowd of security trying to keep her back. She suddenly looks unsure, instead of protective and slightly angry. </p><p>I hum a high pitch, which, in the system we’ve been using sing age fourteen, means yes, and also I’m too nauseous to talk right now. </p><p>Jack waves Nat over. She suddenly looks very relieved. </p><p>Both my hands are gently taken, and I can feel that both of them have put their fingers ‘accidentally’ on my pulse point. Jack knows my heart rate can get unsteady like this, and Nat is being protective. It’s old and new and sweet. Sweet enough that I start to cry, somewhat delusional. </p><p>I’m blaming it on the blood loss, I think as Jack gently wipes my face and Nat whispers to me in Russian. (I should probably finally take up that extra language course Shay keeps probing me to get, curse my senior agent for being right.) (I bet she’s going to smirk knowingly at me next time she sees me, she always knows.) </p><p>I don’t understand the Russian, anyways, but she speaks softly with more emotion than I think she usually would. </p><p>Time blurs together, which I guess either means something is going seriously wrong or I’m having an attack. Yay. Or maybe this is what withdrawal feels like? </p><p>Doesn’t matter. I’m too tired for it to matter.</p><p>I pass out, slowly, because whenever I’m like this, it’s never fast or intentional.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Crowded Hospital Rooms and First Kisses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Star wakes up, returns to her room (with unmentioned stalking friends checking in to make sure she's healing properly and yes, I have taken my meds, please leave me alone, or at least eat breakfast with me), and has a lovely talk with our favorite assassin.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the short chapter! Romance is my weakest genre, so I kinda get stuck while writing it. I hope you enjoy it anyways! (If you become confused on the characters in this chapter, I have a character guide posted. Check it out in my other works, if you need to.) &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I wake up in a different room, with somehow more people in it. There’s your obligatory nurse, and then literally everyone. Jack, or course, who is sleeping and holding my hand, and Nat, who nods at me quietly, scanning my face. There’s Brooke and Bryn, the twins leaned up together to sleep upright at the end of my bed, just past my feet. Ember and Spark are passed out in the hard chairs in the two corners next to the door, with Onyx and Petal at their feet, dozing. Ray is reading, leaning against the wall, yet to notice me. I think it’s a cookbook-that’s always been his thing, cooking. (It’s a very rare kind of nerd, the cooking nerd.) Shay is doing paperwork, and probably about my medical condition or a mission or something. She also glances up at me every few seconds, as if to assure herself I haven’t died while she looked at her papers. The nurse stands awkwardly, leaning against the wall near my IV pole and a computer. </p><p>“The gangs’ all here, huh?” I rasp. Shay smiles at me softly and nods, putting her papers aside to consider me. Ray almost drops his book, which leads to a mad scramble with ends with Nat holding his book and a very bashful Ray. I hand him back his book and turn to Nat.</p><p>“Hi,” I say. “Also, ow.” I wince, the moving having aggravated my wounds, which are still angry with me. Mean. </p><p>“I will turn up your morphine,” Nat responds, leaning to type into a computer at a desk behind her. The nurse takes over for her after assuring her quietly that he can do it. He also begins to raptly look at the screen even after he finishes making the changes with the IV. Probably keeping an eye on my vitals. </p><p>I look around. “How long has everyone been here?”</p><p>“We had to leave for shifts occasionally,” Shay says lowly. “I’m surprised you woke when we’re all here, actually. But we’ve been mostly living in this room for two days now.” </p><p>Nat nods thoughtfully, as if that is nothing. </p><p>“Two days?!” I demand in a stage whisper, making sure I won’t wake anyone. It startles Jack awake though, or maybe I moved my hand.</p><p>He sits bolt upright, looks at me, froze, and then grinned like an idiot. </p><p>“She’s awake!” he yells, also like an idiot. Idiot. </p><p>I glare weakly at him. “Jack, you’re an idiot,” I inform him as everyone wakes up very abruptly, most of them managing to catch themselves before they hit a hard surface, thanks to SHIELD training. Brooke and Bryn topple right out the bed, but land (mostly) safely, if the cursing in Spanish is any indication to both of their health. Spark is suddenly on me, as our resident doctor (and hacker, and one of the geniuses that litter my friend group for some reason), checking everything from my pulse to how dilated my eyes are. </p><p>After Ray, Spark’s fiance, has managed to drag Spark off of me, I am swarmed in a different way.</p><p>“Are you okay?”<br/>
“How do you feel?”<br/>
“Does it hurt?”<br/>
“Star, how are you? Mentally?”<br/>
“Who kidnapped you?”<br/>
“What do you want me to do with Xavier, I don’t know how he found out, but he’s been harassing me about you.”<br/>
“Was is HYDRA? Or someone else? A mutant hate group? God, I bet it would be, if they figured you out. A congresswoman would be the best prize they could ask for, the jerks.”<br/>
“Where were you? We should track it, just in case it happens again.”<br/>
“I’m looking over your security measures from now on.”</p><p>Nat holds up a hand, as if to push their words back with it. Everyone shuts up, probably because she’s the Black Widow.</p><p>I love my friends, but they can be overwhelming, sometimes. </p><p>“Hi,” I say. I try my best to ignore the twinge even that produces in my chest. </p><p>Nat squeezes my hand so lightly I barely feel it and wouldn’t be able to see it happen, but it feels like safety. </p><p>The room is quiet for a second, and then I’m crushed in a group hug. Shay and Nat haul everyone off me as Spark frets about the damage to my poor broken body, but I just grin massively. </p><p>“Hey guys,” I say, my voice kind of raspy.</p><p>“Welcome back,” Shay says, picking Brooke up off the bed like she would a cuddly cat who needs to back off. Brooke pouts, but gives Shay a quick peck before jumping out of her arms. </p><p>“Yeah!” </p><p>The nurse looks up at the call from literally everyone, it seems like, besides Nat, who squeezes my hand again.</p><p>I smile. “Thanks, guys, but you didn’t have to stay here for me.”</p><p>“Disagree,” Petal says, putting their hair back in order. The bracelet on their wrist-braided, now-tells me the gender compass is currently shifted towards nonbinary. They’re wearing a rumpled leather jacket, jeans, an All Time Low tee, and what looks like combat boots, with their usual (off-duty) hoop earrings. “We’ll do this for anyone who gets hurt, regardless on their opinion on whether they deserve it or not, because we care, and it’s going to happen.” </p><p>“Childhood trauma strikes again,” Onyx jokes, snapping his fingers. “None of us can escape it, I see.”</p><p>I snort. Says the guy who was terrified to get chest surgery because what if he got beat up for it even though he’s perfectly safe and has Petal as a SO who would kill anyone who messes with him. </p><p>Nat looks around passively, like Shay does when her genius-brain is picking up information. Shay notices this, and Nat notices Shay noticing, and they exchange a very serious looking nod, which seems to convey the general feeling of ‘let’s try our hardest, fellow genius, to keep these idiots alive’. Which I can and can’t argue with. Because Shay and Nat are obviously very smart. But also, I don’t feel that dumb. I’m just dumb by comparison, to, like, Einstien, not, like, your average dude. </p><p>I guess Shay approves, though, which means Nat is one step closer to acceptance by my friends. (I wonder if Petal has given their verdict yet…)</p><p>And thus is our welcome home. (And Nat’s welcome, period.)</p><p>---</p><p>Star is up within a inhuman four days after she gains consciousness. Her ribs, she says, will be fully healed from being broken in a few more days, and the cuts have already begun to scar slightly. Her healing rate is impressive, if not the best I’ve ever seen.</p><p>Spark does frown over Star’s wings, though. Star is forced to wear a cast-type thing for the next month-I suppose the bones in her wings are more fragile than most, or perhaps heal slower? </p><p>“Your wings,” I say, as Star is going through her books with a frown. She has many fiction and non-fiction, but is apparently not satisfied with her collection. “Why do they not heal as fast as the rest of your body?”</p><p>I touch the few feathers I can reach from where they escape the splint Spark bullied onto Star, which flatten themselves on contact. They are sleek, a deep blue that’s practically black, and they are beautiful. </p><p>“The bones in my wings are different than the ones in the rest of my body,” Star says, turning to me. “My body correlates with that, I guess. It’s just slower because my body is kind of freaking out about this new thing it doesn’t have a ton of experience with.”</p><p>She looks beautiful in that moment. Her window (bulletproof, with blackout curtains) is open, letting sunlight highlight her. A slim, long nose, a small smile, fond purple eyes, all glowing gold. Her black hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail, her clothes are loose and casual, and I never thought I would get this. She’s so perfect.</p><p>The mark on my side warms, slightly.</p><p>I nod. (I wonder what her mark looks like.)</p><p>Star goes back to her book collection. She frowns at a copy of 1984, apparently split between what seems to be the ‘political commentary’ section and the ‘fiction’ section. She decides to put it on a new shelf altogether, and begins the process of moving similar books to that shelf, next to a potted lavender. I move forward and pick the books and hand them to her with one hand and pet her wings with the other.</p><p>I have a heart attack when one falls out just after I hand Star Animal Farm. Star doesn’t seem to notice, though, so I just stare at the fallen feather for half a second before handing Star  Farenheit 451 and then the books in the Hunger Games series. Anthem and just about the rest of Ayn Rand’s books join before I kiss Star on the cheek and run to the bathroom with the feather in-hand. </p><p>The feather matches my mark exactly-a curved feather with a splattering of multiple colors. The spine is black, and branching off from it is purples, blues, blacks, greys, and dots of white. Which is strange. There is also the fact that it fell off in the first place. Is that supposed to happen? Do birds shed, like pets do? Would that even apply to Star? Is she sick, and this is a symptom-her body getting rid of useless calorie spendage? Or an aftereffect of her injuries, maybe? Internal bleeding we missed?</p><p>Footsteps, and then a knock on the door. </p><p>“Nat?” Star calls. It’s still strange to have anyone but Clint call me by such a close nickname. The rest of the Avengers just earned the honor. “You good?”</p><p>“I’m fine, I’ll be out in a second,” I say, flushing the toilet. I then wash my hands after tucking the feather into one of my many concealed pockets-this one tucked right over my heart, a place I am mostly likely to prioritize instinctually in defense. If this thing goes down, so am I, and I highly doubt that. </p><p>I open the door to a kiss on the cheek from Star, which ceases my thought processes for a second before I catch back up to reality. </p><p>Star is now back to her reorganizing, but she doesn’t seem very focused on it. “You ever dated anyone, Nat?” she asks. </p><p>I ponder my answer. The Red Room had many weapons for us to use, including seduction. “Are we counting unwilling partners?” I ask. Star’s hand stutters, dropping her copy of Animal Farm. </p><p>She spins around quite quickly. “You-” she stops, probably releasing this could be a sore point in my emotional wellbeing. “No,” she croaks.</p><p>“Then, no,” I say sitting gracefully beside her, making sure to leave an inch of room between us. </p><p>Star nods, turning back to her books with a wrinkle in her forehead and several glances in my direction. “I have,” she says. “Do you remember Ember?”</p><p>“I do,” I say calmly. While it is taboo for many to date outside of your soulbond-even with the more progressive views of the general younger population-I have never put much stock in such things, at least not when my opinions were not being influenced. “A teenage romance?” I tease, “Perhaps a discovery of sexuality?”</p><p>I am hit with a paperback square on the nose. “I just-” Star starts, “I mean-if we’re going to, uh, do this-this dating thing? You know, as soulmates? You should probably know that…” she trails off, before a panicked look comes over her. “Oh, not that you have to date me, or anything! I just-uh, I meant-”</p><p>I cut her off with a chuckle. I reach out for her hand, and upon contact, Star turns an even deeper shade of red than she had already managed. In my most formal voice, I say, “Miss Spiral, it would be my greatest honor to court you, provided you give me your love in return for mine.”</p><p>Star turns a further brilliant ruby. I am starting to be concerned about her health. “I-uh-yeah,” she stutters. She does a terrible British accent. “I would be honored to exchange in matters of-the-uh-heart, with you.”</p><p>I kiss her hand. Star’s skin, which had begun to return to normal, returns to deep red. “Of course, my fair love,” I respond. “And if I may be so bold, may I ask you on a affair of the romantic sort, aнгел?”</p><p>Star smiles. “Of course, миний хайр,” she respond in partial Mongolian to match my Russian. Her mother was listed as Mongolian in her files, to her father’s British. I suppose this is going to be an exchange of sorts in terms of language. </p><p>“Aнгел, are you quite sure?” I ask. “I am the Black Widow, an Avenger, and my hands are stained in blood. I cannot promise you will be safe, if the public knew about you. You-it might be safer for you to decline.”</p><p>Star raises an eyebrow. “I’m dating a woman, Nat, you. Do you know what some jerks would do to me if I announced that to them? What does it matter? I signed up for this job aware of the danger. I became a Congresswoman aware of the danger. I’m a mutant, and I’m aware of that danger. I’m queer-that may be my end. Life is full of danger-so what does it matter? I’ve chosen to prioritize me. My happiness, my life, my everything, over the possibility of being hurt.” </p><p>I kiss her.</p><p>“So cute,” she mutters when we break apart. I agree-Star’s face is flushed, her hair has started to frizz and become in slight disarray, her eyes are sparkling, and her hand is firmly entangled in mine. </p><p>I smirk at her. “Of course, aнгел, nothing but the best for you,” I say, “And on that note, where would you prefer your first date with this cutie to be?”</p><p>Star laughs, slightly flushed again. “How about-hmmm. We could try ice skating? I’ve wanted to do it since I was a kid, but never got to try it. I’d bet I’m horrible at it, but it looks like fun!” </p><p>I kiss her hand again. “A great idea, my lovely companion. We shall commence to the skating upon the ice as soon as convenient.”</p><p>Star smacks me with a pillow, before kissing me again.</p><p>She tastes like happiness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! (If you became confused with the characters in this chapter, I have a character guide posted. Check it out in my other works, if you need to.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Nat v. Dating</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nat and Clint have a discussion-how does one date while also a super-spy? What about all those little procedures ingrained into Nat? Is that manipulation? How does she do this? She's never dated anyone, she's too much of a mess!</p><p>(And other internal screaming.)</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is very short. And very late. I apologize. But I do have some reasons! </p><p>A) Romance is still my worst genre<br/>B) I've been making masks to help in the pandemic as well as my usual work so it's been kind of hectic<br/>and<br/>C) I've kind of hit a writer's block<br/>Anyway, so sorry and here it is!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I thoroughly vet the ice skating rink before even scouting it a week before the date. The place is called Snowball the Penguin’s Arctic Wonderland, ridiculously, despite penguins existing in Antarctica, famously. The establishment is also little more than a terrible restaurant, a small booth renting out ice skates for unfair amounts, and an oval of ice ringed with terribly photoshopped images of an overly happy penguin in a snowy area. But it’s an ice skating rink in NYC, not overly crowded, and small enough that I pose a chance of not being recognized. All I have to do is give the branch of the mob that runs the place some cash and a good amount of intimidation tactics, and it’s safe. </p><p>Snowball the Penguin looks almost dementedly happy, in every place I see him. I stroll into the back to double check the “restaurant” actually serves food and not a way to get food poisoning for terribly high prices. The teen operating the snow cone machine almost faceplants when he sees me, but lets me inspect without comment (probably because I didn’t see him breathing, might have had something to do with that). </p><p>The place seems to be aware of health and safety codes, if not following them to the letter. I’ll just grab us both food beforehand, I suppose. That’s a date activity, I believe. </p><p>Now. </p><p>To scope restaurants. Which ones? I’m aware there is a certain etiquette-no spaghetti, dress up, and so on. But the only dating I know is the kind I used to seduce my marks, and that seems wrong, now. Too manipulative to use with my soulmate. </p><p>Who to ask?</p><p>Clint. Bastard’s never going to let me forget the conversation that’s about to happen, but I can get him to hold his tongue when it’s crucial. </p><p>I go back to the Tower, and request for Jarvis to bring me to whatever floor Clint has ended up on today. Turns out the answer is the common floor, eating popcorn and chocolate and passive-aggressively watching a movie he knows I hate, to get back at me in spirit. You know, for not introducing him to my soulmate first-thing, or second-thing, or even third-thing.</p><p>“Clint, you do realize I wasn’t here until about a second ago to be annoyed by that movie,” I say, the elevator doors shutting behind me with a smooth sounding ding. Clint doesn’t bother to properly look at me, instead throws a piece of popcorn at me with perfect accuracy. I don’t bother dodging the kernel to the forehead, instead just sighing and walking forward.</p><p>“I need help,” I say, because Clint is a sucker for me admitting that. Predictably, he whips around, a grin on his face I can only describe as a delighted smirk.</p><p>“Oh, the great Widow needs assistance? The woman who knows it all? The greatest spy to ever live?” Clint says, the movie paused by Jarvis and the snacks abandoned. “Did I hear that right? Did my great ears deceive me?”</p><p>“Clint, you are hard of hearing, it’s possible,” I say, gracefully sitting on the couch, a small smile on my face. I dodge the popcorn projectile this time. “And, more importantly than the ego you think I have, or my reputation, or anything of the sort: how do I go on a date?”</p><p>Clint stops, sobering quickly. He knows the casualties of a messed-up childhood as well as I do-and a messed-up adulthood. He knows, as none do, that the only dates I have ended on have ended in some sort of bodily harm or kidnapping or drugging or something bad, some other sort of manipulation. Even if the end justifies the means, and I desperately hope it does, the gap widens between me and normalcy with every day. How do I do this without manipulating my soulmate?</p><p>“What if I slip into the procedures, Clint?” I ask, taking a piece of popcorn-caramel kettle corn, of course, Clint’s favorite-and popping it into my mouth. “I don’t want this to be an illusion. Or use my skills against her. Or anything. But I don’t know how to not do that, either.”</p><p>Clint scoots until he is sitting up against me, and he hands me the bowl of popcorn solemnly. “I mean, on one hand,” he starts, looking more thoughtful than he ever has since Budapest, “All of that is a part of you, you know? The great Nat, spy, woman, Avenger, redhead, SHIELD agent, all of that is you.”</p><p>He pauses, glancing at me, as if to confirm that this is true.</p><p>“But on the other hand, using manipulative spy tactics to make your soulmate like you is kinda, like, the worst thing ever to do. You know? Like an A-grade sin. So I dunno.”</p><p>“That’s very helpful, Clint,” I say, deadpan.</p><p>He swats me, not offended at all. “But let’s start small, I guess. Do you have any plans for a date?”</p><p>I nod. “She suggested a skating rink, so I found one with the lowest chance of being attacked and having me be recognized-unfortunately, that did mean I had to pay off the mob boss who runs the place, but so be it. Snowball the Penguin’s Arctic Wonderland, while having ice and low danger, does also have the worst restaurant to lay scourge on the Earth. So we should get food beforehand. But what food? Is there rules for this thing? Should I take her somewhere nice? What if I’m recognized and she’s dogged by the press because of me, or hurt? Do I take her somewhere more casual? Will she be offended if I do? And what do I wear that isn’t part of seducing-the-mark wardrobe?”</p><p>My accent has verged from neutral to dangerously close to Russian as I go on, the questions rapid-fire.</p><p>Clint fixes this problem by swatting me again, this time on the head. What excellent company I keep. “Slow down. Step-by-step.”</p><p>I huff. “You tell me, then,” I say, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.</p><p>“Tell me about her, then I will,” Clint says, with an indulging smile. The jerk just wants me to gush about her and make a fool of myself, but, honestly, I don’t care.</p><p>“Clint, it’s-I don’t have anything to compare it to. She isn’t offended by anything I do, she’s smart, she can defend herself so I don’t have to worry, and she’s so pretty, Clint. Her wings, too-they are so soft, when she lets you touch them, and it feels like the closest I’ve ever gotten to holy, to look at her and brush her wings through with my fingers. And her hair in the sunlight, the way she moves-she called me cute. No one has called me cute since-since Russia! She speaks Mongolian and isn’t afraid to use it, it must be her first language, with the accent, and-and she’s not scared of me, Clint. She turns her back without a pause, she gets concerned when I suddenly leave, she-“</p><p>Clint laughs. Full on belly-laughs, wiping at the tears, clutching his stomach laugh. Rude. I huff, waiting for him to recover.</p><p>“You-“ he stops to wheeze- “You sound like a teenage girl with her first crush, Nat!”</p><p>I roll my eyes and punch him in the arm. He, unfazed, just laughs again. “And not even denying it!”</p><p>He’s delighted. I decide to wait out the eventual strange wisdom he will eventually provide me with, as another twisted-just-so person who gets it.</p><p>Once he catches his breath and gets over the fact that I have pleasant emotions towards another human being, we get back on topic, with a little bit of digging-in-the-heels from Clint.</p><p>“I mean, Nat, you really do sound like-“ he starts, smirk firmly in place.<br/>I roll my eyes again, more dramatically this time. “Just give me dating advice, jerk,” I say, pushing at his shoulder.</p><p>With another chuckle periodically punctuating his speech, he manages to say, “Okay, so I don’t think she’s the type to be offended that you didn’t take her to a place that costs about as much as someone’s rent. I would say go for casual, a getting to know you casual, like a nice dinner, or sit-in but small restaurant, or, I don’t know, bringing food you made to a pretty spot, or something. A place where you can talk comfortably, where it’s less likely the press will manage to find you, and all that stuff. And for clothes-just normal you, but elevated. With the, say, jeans and a tee, put on, like, a matching jacket and shoes, or something. And, above all, if you notice yourself falling into mission-requires or objective-is or anything, try to pull yourself out of it. You’re having a fun time, not going on a mission.”</p><p>By the end, he’s come off his self-imposed laughing gas and has sobered right down to very, very serious. Which is rare, with Clint.</p><p>I decide for this, I’ll let him win in a sparring match.</p><p>I smile. “Thank you, Clint,” I say, looking into his eyes and equally as serious. He nods, and then his composure breaks with a large, goofy smile.<br/>“Go get ‘er, tiger,” he says, shooing me off the couch and waving me off with a chocolate bar. I sigh with a slight grin on my face and walk overdramatically to the elevator, as if heading off to war.</p><p>I’m gone with a two-finger salute and a grin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please let me know what you think or what you want to see in the next chapter, I'm open to ideas!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. First Date</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>First date, 'nuff said.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Romance is still my worst genre. I am dragging myself to finish this, guys. Anyway, world's crazy right now, so stay safe and healthy. BLM, and stuff. </p><p>(Sorry for not updating quickly. Literally just finished this chapter. Hope you guys like it!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nat texts me at three in the morning, telling me like it’s a more reasonable hour to meet her tomorrow (no, today, it’s past midnight) at a small park near my particular SHIELD station.<br/> <br/>I, in my greatest moment, roll over and go back to sleep.<br/> <br/>Upon waking, and drinking coffee, and actually waking up for real this time, I get dressed. My wings will be artfully concealed, I assume as is to plan, with the usual deal-a binder-like contraption that tucks my wings firmly against my core and makes it look like I’m just a little thicker around the middle, not a woman with wings. Ember and Petal can do scary things when set a goal and let free-it’s a feat of engineering, really.<br/> <br/>My usual casual look is put on, if slightly done up. The usual sports bra, cut to not disrupt my wings but also to be comfortable and in place firmly. A shirt that fits in the shoulders and arms, but is looser around the waist and chest to allow more forgiveness for any off shapes made by the two extra appendages strapped to me. My favorite deep blue jacket, with a feminine cut of a trench coat, if a trench coat went to someone’s knees. Black jeans, with phone, earbuds, and all the needed supplies to escape a kidnapping sewn into the hem. Hair pulled back, today into a slightly messy bun. And, finally, some black sneakers, perfect for walking through a park or tugging off and replacing with ice skates or running from your enemies.<br/> <br/>With the application of some quick makeup-the only thing more noteworthy than usual about it being the lipstick, a shade of blue matching to my coat-I’m out the door with my breakfast in-hand. I eat the smoothie and pastry supplied by Brooke on my way out the door (how on Earth did she know about the date-you know what, it was probably Shay, or maybe it’s my birthday and I forgot or something) (I check the date, it is not my birthday) on my walk to my surprise date. That apparently my friends know about-or maybe they’re just being over protective after my stay in medical.</p><p>I take my time in the walk, trying to emotionally hear myself for a date with my soulmate. Nat. The Black Widow. The woman who blushes as red as her hair when I kiss her cheek. </p><p>The pastry is good- a cranberry scone, topped with some powdered sugar. The smoothie is good-citrusy, with blueberry and probably spinach and other nonsense because Spark. </p><p>Nat is sitting on a fountain, looking more beautiful than she has any business being. Long, red braid, artfully pulled up into a beautiful hairdo, blue jeans, black shirt, grey hoodie, unzipped, silver jewelry flashing in the sun. She’s reading something, and with my eyes I can tell it’s the cover of Anthem-one of my books. Aw, she’s trying to catch up. </p><p>“Hi,” I say as I get close, knowing she already knows that I am here. <br/>“Hello,” she says, showing no signs of being startled. I sit down beside her as she closes the book, neither putting a bookmark to keep her place nor dog-earing the page. Maybe she memorizes the page number.<br/> <br/>“What’s your favorite type of food?” Nat asks, looking over to me with a smirk as Anthem finds its way into a messenger bag.<br/> <br/>I immediately forget every type of food I’ve ever eaten.<br/> <br/>“Uh,” I say, floundering, “I’m pretty okay with anything except seafood.”<br/> <br/>Nat stands, offering me a graceful hand. “Why seafood?”<br/>I take the hand and smile. “My mother’s awful cooking scarred me.”<br/>Nat laughs. “That’s good, then,” she says, “Tell me about your mother and her cooking.”<br/>“Okay, so in general she isn’t so bad, right,” I say, talking with my hands, “But like she had this period where she was experimenting with foods outside what she usually makes using internet recipes, and-my God, the poor fish was piss yellow, Nat. I swear it was.”<br/> <br/>Nat chuckles, taking my hand almost casually and leading me on a path into the park. I blush slightly but don’t make a move to pull away. Her hand is warm in mine. “So, my mom bribed me with pie, as one does, so I would actually eat my dinner. Will, my big brother, he was also not having it. But he didn’t like cherry pie, so he was immune to the blackmail.”<br/> <br/>“But you were on the quest for the cherry pie,” Nat says amusedly. She’s leading me down a gravel path cut through an almost-forest, almost-flower-field, lined with benches and trash cans. </p><p>“I was,”  I say very seriously. “And on my noble quest, I did complete my goal: I passed the challenge of the piss fish and was granted access to the great cherry pie. Unfortunately, as soon as I finished the fish, I did immediately throw up, so-”</p><p>Nat’s sudden laugh is unexpected and bright, and it makes me laugh with her.</p><p>“And now you’re scarred for seafood,” she says, still breathless from laughter.<br/>“I really am,” I say mournfully, “I can barely manage smelling it anymore.”</p><p>Nat laughs again. For appearances, smiling, I shove her gently, but she comes right back into my orbit. </p><p>“And now that you have blackmail against me, are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask, my hand threading into hers this time. I don’t really mind not knowing, but I want her to talk again. </p><p>“Blackmail material would not be so easily given,” Nat says, ignoring the question.</p><p>I glance over at her, smirking. “Maybe I just like you.”</p><p>Nat blushes very, very noticeably, with her pale skin. It’s adorable, and it happens when I wouldn’t expect it to. I love it.</p><p>The path opens up again, and at first I don’t pay much attention, because we have passed through three fields and not paused (except for that one dog, he was so fluffy and I needed to pet him) (Pancake is such a good boy). But then Nat stops, turning to me with a tiny bit of nervousness in the set of her mouth and the tilt to her eyebrows. </p><p>This clearing is empty, so much so that I can barely hear through the trees barks or children’s yelling or traffic. It’s as peaceful as New York gets, here. </p><p>Nat certainly helped this with the fairy lights, easels, a basket (an honest to god wicker basket, the sap), a small collection of sketchbooks strewn on a blanket that looks plush, and-to finish it off-several books scattered around. It’s like stepping into an elf’s home right after they’ve stepped out-paints are out, water sits next to half full glasses on a small low table, and Nat is standing awkwardly waiting to see if I like it. </p><p>Seeing her face, I laugh and hug her. An instant later I’m off, exploring. As I do (she brought flowers!), Nat talks. </p><p>“Ice skating rink opens later, but I thought we could make a day of it?”</p><p>I have never heard the Black Widow ask a question as if unsure, but here I am. </p><p>I grin at Nat. “You are a beautiful woman, soulmate.”</p><p>“As are you,” Nat responds, a grin slipping in place. </p><p>There’s candles scattered around, as of yet unlit. Little carpets and rugs are strewn on the grass, and they’re all wonderfully soft. There’s even little carvings in wood-some are like stars, one is Saturn, another a tree. It’s adorable. I wonder if she carves as a hobby-I’ve never heard of the Black Widow’s hobbies. Apparently, one is planning great dates. </p><p>I spin around to her. “You’re the best!” I say, hugging her. </p><p>She freezes up for a second, and I almost let go-maybe touch is a no-go, at least right now? But then she relaxes and wraps her arms around me, and then her head is on the admittedly lower than her head shoulder, and suddenly we’re rocking back and forth gently. </p><p>If she cries this is going to get a little awkward, because I have no idea what to do, and I don’t know what I would do then. </p><p>She lets me go, staring at me rather intensely. Touch starved, probably. </p><p>“C’mon,” I say, excitedly, “I want to paint!”</p><p>I rush off the toward the easeles, checking out the paints. There’s even glittery and metallic types! Kinda like those nail polish videos I’ve seen. </p><p>I decide to paint Nat. I can draw passingly, so I sketch out the outline of her face, making sure to get the hair right, and the slope of the nose, and the eyes-those grey-green eyes. </p><p>It takes a bit longer than expected, let’s say.</p><p>Then I do some experimenting with paints. I decide to do a test run of my precious cat daughter, Misty, chattering to Nat all the while.</p><p>“And she’s a lil’ chunky, so I feed her once a day in the mornings because doing that is supposed to be better than just refilling her bowl, ‘cuz cats don’t really have a measure of appetite, apparently? Or some of them, I guess. And she’s less chunky than she looks, to be fair, because she’s got this beautiful grey long coat over all that chunk, so to be fair to her, the lass is doing better than she appears. Honestly, aren’t all of us? Or maybe the opposite, you seem pretty good at covering up your bullshit?”</p><p>I pause, wondering if that was offensive. Nat mostly just looks amused. <br/>“It’s part of the job requirements,” Nat muses.</p><p>“That’s a lie. They didn’t ask me about my BS at SHIELD, and I know for a fact Tony Stark is a smoking mess ninety-eight percent of the time. So, what, this you-specific? ‘Cause that just sounds like you covering up for symptoms of trauma.”</p><p>Then I freeze up. Oops. Me and my big mouth, rambling whatever comes to mind, especially when I’m comfortable with the person.</p><p>Natasha is stiff, staring at me.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! If you want, you can leave me a comment (which I will answer!) or a kudos! Both are greatly appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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